Captain's Quarters on the Lunatic Troubadour
by Anne Lessing
Summary: Here I will stow away all the drabbles, oneshots, and such-like nonsense written for the Broken Compass "drabble a week" challenge. Rated T just to be safe.
1. Leaf

**CAPTAIN'S QUARTERS ON THE LUNATIC TROUBADOUR**

_Welcome, all! Hope you like my ship. She's the second-fastest in the Caribbean. Fact!_

_Here I will stow the drabbles and one-shots I write for the "drabble a week" challenge at the Broken Compass forum. Each is inspired by a one-word prompt._

_I hope you enjoy. Tell me which are your favorites, which you don't like, and how I can improve! Constructive criticism is always welcome._

**~*~Leaf**

_Inspired by drabble prompt "mistletoe."_

Jones watched with malicious satisfaction as the ship before him twisted and burned into a fiery scarlet heap. Another conquest. Another few souls, nameless and faceless, melting into the timbers of the _Dutchman._

Something fluttered upward from the wreckage, carried on the wind by the rising heat. Jones followed it idly, watching it spiral and dance, until it landed at his feet. Distraction turned to disgust.

Mistletoe.

Of all things.

_Mistletoe._

He kicked it away and stomped to his dank quarters, stonewalling the flood of memories that threatened to drown him. Her lips, her scent, her face, her....

Her.

Bloody hell.

_Mistletoe._


	2. Attraction

**~*~Attraction**

_Inspired by drabble prompt "masque." (masquerade ball)_

_This one was my betareader's favorite!_

"Miss Swann, you look exceedingly lovely tonight."

The fair sixteen-year-old blushed under her elaborately feathered mask. "You're too kind, Mr. Beckett."

"I'm quite serious."

"How can you be? You can't see my face!"

Beckett laughed. It was a simple jest, but amusing all the same. "Checkmate, my dear. Try the punch."

Elizabeth nodded and curtsied, feathers waving like the palm fronds that dotted the beach, and weaved her way through the bejeweled masquerade-goers. Beckett watched.

She would mature into a fine woman. Intelligent and kind, but shy. She kept her head down. Beckett liked those sorts of women; he had no use for a bossy harridan who would meddle in his private affairs.

Wait a few years. She would come to him.

A moth drawn to flame.

Or a pirate drawn to plunder?

Either way.


	3. Faces

**~*~Faces**

_Inspired by drabble prompt "candles."_

Sometimes, she imagined she could see his face in the wavering pools of light, staring with those penetrating eyes of his. Occasionally, he laughed. At her.

Calypso always knew she was hallucinating, trapped in that feverish dimension between dreams and reality, but she never cared.

She never cared whether he was laughing or weeping or shouting or just _staring._

He was there.

And that was all that mattered.


	4. Spice Things Up

**~*~Spice Things Up**

_Inspired by drabble prompt "chaos."_

The code must be followed, of course. Everyone knew that.

When these wild fights in the Chamber broke out, as they often did, it was Teague's duty to stop them. And stop them he did, but always with a pang.

He liked the fights. He liked the shouts and the clamor and the sweat and the _crack_ of pistols. It livened things up, something he sorely needed after long, musty hours in the library.

_Chaos._ That's what those fights were.

Sweet chaos.

After all, what would life be without it?


	5. Rose

**~*~Rose**

_Inspired by drabble prompt "flowers."_

_This one was actually uncomfortable for me to read over once I'd finished it. I feel almost as though I'm violating the character's privacy. _

The day is young.

He prefers to be here, kneeling in the sand, human again for a merciful moment, under cover of darkness. Early morning.

With a turn of the key, the lid flips open. A primal, thudding beat emanates from the chest and wraps around his consciousness. All he can hear is this.

It is time.

Out of a pocket he pulls a rose. A single, perfect bloom, spiked with thorns. Reverently, he lays it on the pile of letters covering the accursed thing. It is a token to one long gone. A symbol.

A symbol of their love.

For _she _was a rose, if there ever was one. Prickly and thorny, difficult to get to or hold once you did, but beautiful.

Utterly, utterly beautiful.

Calypso.

Beautiful.

The beating takes him in its cruel grasp, wrenches his head forward, spills tears from his eyes. He doubles over. Sobs wrack his frame.

Calypso.

Calypso.

Calypso.

Beautiful.


	6. Drown the Demons

**~*~Drown the Demons**

_Inspired by drabble prompt "rage."_

The open mouth of the bottle stares me down like the loaded barrel of a gun. I lift it, press it to my lips.

Ah.

Rum's just the thing for a jilted lover!

Elizabeth...

_Why?_

He's a bloody _pirate_. A _pirate._ What can he possibly give you that _I_ can't? You could have had the world, Elizabeth. Coaches and servants and a beautiful house and the husband you deserve.

What do you have now?

A husband without connections or means. A man below your station. He is an _anarchist,_ a rebel against order. Your dowry will be squandered. Your children will be raised in poverty. _You_ will spend the rest of your days as a commoner. A laborer. A _peasant._

Is that what you wanted? Destitution?

I hope you drown in it.

_No..._no, I didn't mean that. I'm sorry...the rum. It does things to me.

I can't help it.

The rum is all I have left.

So I keep drinking. To disappointment and despair, to love's labour's lost.

To you, my darling.

To you.


	7. Patience

**~*~Patience**

_Inspired by drabble prompt "wait."_

A flash of green. An empty horizon. A young woman, alone on a beach.

There's nothing left to do but wait.

You turn and trudge through silky sand, eyes following the footprints left just a minute, an era ago by your lover. You stop, press your own foot in one, let the cool breeze caress the back of your neck.

Ten years is a long time.

A _very_ long time.

Any worries for him would be baseless, you know, but you'll be in your _thirties_ the next time you meet! You'll see him six times more, if you're lucky!

Alone on this island...

And what if you're _pregnant?_

Resolutely, you shake your head. Everything will work out just fine. You'll build yourself a house, live off the land. You'll cope.

He will come back.

A decade to the day.

An idea strikes. You pick up a sharp rock and run to the cliffs that jut out to the sea's edge. A mark is scratched on. A solitary line.

One day.

Tomorrow you'll do the same, and the day after that and all the days after that. A countdown.

Nine years, 364 more days to go.

Until then, there's not much left to do, is there?

Except watch.

And wait.


	8. Choices, Choices

**~*~Choices, Choices**

_Inspired by drabble prompt "priorities."_

Money or alcohol?

It was a question that never ceased to plague him.

Jack tossed his solitary doubloon from hand to weathered hand, mind racing.

_Money is perennially a fortuitous item to have on one's person._

_But so is rum._

_Money can be so useful--much more useful than rum!_

_But rum provides instant gratification._

_Hm. Instant gratification, you say? _

_But, but money can--_

_Instant gratification!_

_Usefulness!_

_Silence belowdecks! Both of you!_

Minutes later, Jack swaggered out onto the rough dirt street, penniless and already tipsy.

Here's to priorities!

_And instant gratification. _


	9. Correction

**~*~Correction**

_Inspired by drabble prompt "music."_

He had fought hard for this position.

He had bowed and scraped to moronic superiors, unleashed the full, devastating power of his silver-sheathed tongue, even slit a throat or two.

His title was music to his ears.

_Lord Cutler Beckett._

So that was why, when that idiot Swann mangled his name, it was only sensible that he should receive a correction.

"It's _lord,_ now.

"Actually."


	10. Because she is Calypso

**~*~Because she is Calypso**

_Inspired by drabble prompt "wild and untamed."_

I don't know why I love her.

She is a thing of myth and legend and fireside tales, of stunning violence and touching compassion, of wild waves and thunderous hurricanes, a thing more and less than human.

She betrayed our pact and left me standing on that empty beach as a jilted bride at the altar. In return, I crippled her, but she will never know my pain. Never.

But as I sit here, setting my thoughts to parchment, my eyes travel to her likeness above my keyboard. And I know why I love her.

Oh yes. I know.

_Because_ of the mystery surrounding her, the brutality and tenderness, the tsunamis and monsoons, the love she holds for me.

Because she is Calypso.

Wild and untamed.


	11. Lyrics

**~*~Lyrics**

_Inspired by drabble prompt "justice."_

The singing jars him from his work.

Lord Cutler Beckett looks up from his papers, a touch irritated. At least they were finally getting around to it.

The hoard of voices swells past the confines of the oppressively hot courtyard, into the town of Port Royal, across the sea and countless thousands of leagues. Around the world, certain pirates stop mid-sentence, or freeze in the midst of battle, or halt their scratching pens in their quarters.

And, just as soon as it began, the song is cut off by the enforcement of justice--the pull of a lever and tightening of ropes. Lord Beckett does not immediately resume his work, ears ringing with the defiant tune.

The plan has been set in motion. Nothing can stop it now.

The quill meets the parchment once again.

Never shall they die, eh?

Well.

We'll see about that.


	12. Fruitless Flattery

**~*~FRUITLESS FLATTERY**

_Written for drabble prompt "evil."_

"You dirty lit'l _rat!_ That's _mine!_"

The furry streak slid to a halt on the opposite rail, grinning dementedly.

"Give it _back!_"

The monkey pursed his lips and cocked his head, deep in thought, then slowly, teasingly, extended his paw--

Over the rail.

The man's voice dropped a full octave; he knew, in a situation like this, flattery was key. "C'mere, lit'l monkey. You're so _cute!_ Look, I have a treat for you!"

The monkey sniffed the air suspiciously, and the paw crept a bit closer to safety.

"Good boy! Look! If you come _over here,_ I'll give you--no, what are you doin'? Stop that! _Don't you dare--_"

_Kerplunk!_ The uneven wooden sphere dropped from Jack's paw into the choppy waters below. Ragetti snarled and lunged for the evil thing's neck, but he evaded him with a screeching laugh and a mock salute.

Ragetti stared sullenly overboard, silently cursing for all he was worth, and sighed.

Time to whittle a new one.


	13. Whispers of War

**~*~Whispers of War**

_Inspired by drabble prompt "port."_

Port Royal.

Serene and cool, on the front. Everyone knows their place. Nobility parade about in lavish carriages with the curtains drawn, commoners appropriately bow their heads and defer to the priviliged.

The nobility believe they hold absolute rule over their little kingdom.

The nobility are blind.

Blind to the piercing glare after a dust-obscured carriage. To the muttered curse, hidden beneath the shade of a brow. To the quiet huddles in taverns, becoming rowdy under the eye of an EITC official. To the weapon squirreled away in the rafters of a home or beneath a mattress--just in case.

The revolution is coming, you know. Very soon, these fractured pieces will snap together to form an unstoppable whole. The uprising will be swift and bloody, but will succeed.

We will suffer noble fools no longer.

The people will rule.

We, Port Royal, will have our freedom.


End file.
